Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 148

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Persuaded that Jack Sheppard would keep his appointment with Mr. Kneebone, and feeling certain of capturing him if he did so, Shotbolt, on quitting Newgate, hurried to the New Prison to prepare for the enterprise. After debating with himself for some time whether he should employ an assistant, or make the attempt alone, his love of gain overcame his fears, and he decided upon the latter plan. Accordingly, having armed himself with various weapons, including a stout oaken staff then ordinarily borne by the watch, and put a coil of rope and a gag in his pocket, to be ready in case of need, he set out, about ten o’clock, on the expedition.

Before proceeding to Wych Street, he called at the Lodge to see how matters were going on, and found Mrs. Spurling and Austin at their evening meal, with Caliban in attendance.

“Well, Mr. Shotbolt,” cried the turnkey, “I’ve good news for you. Mr. Wild has doubled his offer, and the governor has likewise proclaimed a reward of one hundred guineas for Jack’s apprehension.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Shotbolt.

“Read that,” rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. “I ought to tell you that Mr. Wild’s reward is conditional upon Jack’s being taken before to-morrow morning. So I fear there’s little chance of any one getting it.”

“You think so, eh?” chuckled Shotbolt, who was eagerly perusing the reward, and congratulating himself upon his caution; “you think so — ha! ha! Well, don’t go to bed, that’s all.”

“What for?” demanded the turnkey.

“Because the prisoner’s arrival might disturb you — ha! ha!”

“I’ll lay you twenty guineas you don’t take him to-night,” rejoined Austin.

“Done!” cried Shotbolt. “Mrs. Spurling, you’re a witness to the bet. Twenty guineas, mind. I shan’t let you off a farthing. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it.”

“Never count your chickens till they’re hatched,” observed Mrs. Spurling, drily.

“My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so,” replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. “Get ready your heaviest irons, Austin. I’ll send you word when I catch him.”

“You’d better send him,” jeered the turnkey.

“So I will,” rejoined Shotbolt; “so I will. If I don’t, you shall clap me in the Condemned Hold in his stead. Good-bye, for the pressent — ha! ha!” And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge.

“I’ll lay my life he’s gone on a fox-and-goose-chase to Mr. Kneebone’s,” remarked Austin, rising to fasten the door.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Mrs. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. And, while the turnkey was busy with the keys, she whispered to the black, “Follow him, Caliban. Take care he don’t see you — and bring me word where he goes, and what he does.”

“Iss, missis,” grinned the black.

“Be so good as to let Caliban out, Mr. Austin,” continued the tapstress; “he’s only going on an errand.”

Austin readily complied with her request. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager.

Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. Arrived within a short distance of his destination, he came to a halt, and pointing out a dark court nearly opposite the woollen-draper’s abode, told the chairmen to wait there till they were summoned.

“I’m a peace-officer,” he added, “about to arrest a notorious criminal. He’ll be brought out at this door, and may probably make some resistance. But you must get him into the chair as fast as you can, and hurry off to Newgate.”

“And what’ll we get for the job, yer hon’r?” asked the foremost chairman, who, like most of his tribe at the time, was an Irishman.

“Five guineas. Here’s a couple in hand.”

“Faix, then we’ll do it in style,” cried the fellow. “Once in this chair, yer hon’r, and I’ll warrant he’ll not get out so aisily as Jack Sheppard did from the New Pris’n.”

“Hold your tongue, sirrah,” rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, “and mind what I tell you. Ah! what’s that?” he exclaimed, as some one brushed hastily past him. “If I hadn’t just left him, I could have sworn it was Mrs. Spurling’s sooty imp, Caliban.”

Having seen the chairmen concealed in the entry, Shotbolt proceeded to Mr. Kneebone’s habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy.

“Is your master at home?” inquired the jailer.

“He is,” replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. “My name is Kneebone,” added the portly personage, stepping forward. “What do you want with me?”

“A word in private,” replied the other.

“Stand aside, Tom,” commanded Kneebone. “Now Sir,” he added, glancing suspiciously at the applicant “your business?”

“My business is to acquaint you that Jack Sheppard has escaped, Mr. Kneebone,” returned Shotbolt.

“The deuce he has! Why, it’s only a few hours since I beheld him chained down with half a hundred weight of iron, in the strongest ward at Newgate. It’s almost incredible. Are you sure you’re not misinformed, Sir?”

“I was in the Lodge at the time,” replied the jailer.

“Then, of course, you must know. Well, it’s scarcely credible. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he’d accept it. But, egad! I believe he will.”

“I’m convinced of it,” replied Shotbolt; “and it was on that very account I came here.” And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper.

“Well, Sir,” said Kneebone, when the other concluded, “I shall certainly not oppose his capture, but, at the same time, I’ll lend you no assistance. If he keeps his word, I’ll keep mine. You must wait till supper’s over.”

“As you please, Sir — provided you don’t let him off.”

“That I’ll engage not to do. I’ve another reason for supposing he’ll pay me a visit. I refused to sign a petition in his behalf to the Recorder; not from any ill-will to him, but because it was prepared by a person whom I particularly dislike — Captain Darrell.”

“A very sufficient reason,” answered the jailer.

“Tom,” continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, “don’t go home. I may want you. Light the lantern. And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don’t mind it.”

“Not in the least, Sir,” replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them.

“Now, step this way, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

“Shotbolt, Sir,” replied the jailer.

“Very well, Mr. Slipshod; follow me.” And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth.

“Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir,” observed Shotbolt.

“Every inch of it,” replied the woollen-draper. “He ought to do, seeing that he served his apprenticeship in it to Mr. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs.”

“Indeed!” said Shotbolt. “Where can I hide myself?” he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet.

“Under the table. The cloth nearly touches the floor. Give me your staff. It’ll be in your way.”

“Suppose he brings Blueskin, or some other ruffian with him,” hesitated the jailer.

“Suppose he does. In that case I’ll help you. We shall be equally matched. You’re not afraid, Mr. Shoplatch.”

“Not in the least,” replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; “there’s my staff. Am I quite hidden?”

“Not quite; — keep your feet in. Mind you don’t stir till supper’s over. I’ll stamp twice when we’ve done.”

“I forgot to mention there’s a trifling reward for his capture,” cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. “If we take him, I don’t mind giving you a share — say a fourth — provided you lend a helping hand.”

“Curse your reward!” exclaimed Kneebone, angrily. “Do you take me for a thief-catcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?”

“No offence, Sir,” rejoined the jailer, humbly. “I didn’t imagine for a moment that you’d accept it, but I thought it right to make you the offer.”

“Be silent, and conceal yourself. I’m about to ring for supper.”

The woollen-draper’s application to the bell was answered by a very pretty young woman, with dark Jewish features, roguish black eyes, sleek glossy hair, a trim waist, and a remarkably neat figure: the very model, in short, of a bachelor’s housekeeper.

“Rachel,” said Mr. Kneebone, addressing his comely attendant; “put a few more plates on the table, and bring up whatever there is in the larder. I expect company.”

“Company!” echoed Rachel; “at this time of night?”

“Company, child,” repeated Kneebone. “I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh.”

“Anything else, Sir?”

“No:— stay! you’d better not bring up any silver forks or spoons.”

“Why, surely you don’t think your guests would steal them,” observed Rachel, archly.

“They shan’t have the opportunity,” replied Kneebone. And, by way of checking his housekeeper’s familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table.

“Who’s there?” cried Rachel. “I’ll see.” And before she could be prevented, she lifted up the cloth, and disclosed Shotbolt. “Oh, Gemini!” she exclaimed. “A man!”

“At your service, my dear,” replied the jailer.

“Now your curiosity’s satisfied, child,” continued Kneebone, “perhaps, you’ll attend to my orders.”

Not a little perplexed by the mysterious object she had seen, Rachel left the room, and, shortly afterwards returned with the materials of a tolerably good supper; — to wit, a couple of cold fowls, a tongue, the best part of a sirloin of beef, a jar of pickles, and two small dishes of pastry. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master.

“I expect a very extraordinary person to supper, Rachel,” he remarked.

“The gentleman under the table,” she answered. “He does seem a very extraordinary person.”

“No; another still more extraordinary.”

“Indeed! — who is it?”

“Jack Sheppard.”

“What! the famous housebreaker. I thought he was in Newgate.”

“He’s let out for a few hours,” laughed Kneebone; “but he’s going back again after supper.”

“Oh, dear! how I should like to see him. I’m told he’s so handsome.”

“I’m sorry I can’t indulge you,” replied her master, a little piqued. “I shall want nothing more. You had better go to bed.”

“It’s no use going to bed,” answered Rachel. “I shan’t sleep a wink while Jack Sheppard’s in the house.”

“Keep in your own room, at all events,” rejoined Kneebone.

“Very well,” said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, “very well. I’ll have a peep at him, if I die for it,” she muttered, as she went out.

Mr. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Another long interval elapsed. The watch was again consulted. It was now a quarter past twelve. Mr. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles.

“I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won’t come,” he remarked.

“Have a little patience, Sir,” rejoined the jailer.

“How are you off there, Shoplatch?” inquired Kneebone. “Rather cramped, eh?”

“Rather so, Sir,” replied the other, altering his position. “I shall be able to stretch my limbs presently — ha! ha!”

“Hush!” cried Kneebone, “I hear a noise without. He’s coming.”

The caution was scarcely uttered, when the door opened, and Jack Sheppard presented himself. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. It has been already intimated that Jack had an excessive passion for finery; and it might have been added, that the chief part of his ill-gotten gains was devoted to the embellishment of his person. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. His apparel was sumptuous in the extreme, and such as was only worn by persons of the highest distinction. It consisted of a full-dress coat of brown flowered velvet, laced with silver; a waistcoat of white satin, likewise richly embroidered; shoes with red heels, and large diamond buckles; pearl-coloured silk stockings with gold clocks; a muslin cravat, or steen-kirk, as it was termed, edged with the fine point lace; ruffles of the same material, and so ample as almost to hide the tips of his fingers; and a silver-hilted sword. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage. The only departure which he made from the fashion of the period, was in respect to the peruke — an article he could never be induced to wear. In lieu of it, he still adhered to the sleek black crop, which, throughout life, formed a distinguishing feature in his appearance. Ever since the discovery of his relationship to the Trenchard family, a marked change had taken place in Jack’s demeanour and looks, which were so much refined and improved that he could scarcely be recognised as the same person. Having only seen him in the gloom of a dungeon, and loaded with fetters, Kneebone had not noticed this alteration: but he was now greatly struck by it. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned.

“I am expected, I find,” observed Jack, glancing at the well-covered board.

“You are,” replied Kneebone. “When I heard of your escape, I felt sure I should see you.”

“You judged rightly,” rejoined Jack; “I never yet broke an engagement with friend or foe — and never will.”

“A bold resolution,” said the woollen-draper. “You must have made some exertion to keep your present appointment. Few men could have done as much.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Jack, carelessly. “I would have done more, if necessary.”

“Well, take a chair,” rejoined Kneebone. “I’ve waited supper, you perceive.”

“First, let me introduce my friends,” returned Jack, stepping to the door.

“Friends!” echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. “My invitation did not extend to them.”

Further remonstrance, however, was cut short by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called — appropriately enough in this instance — a wrap-rascal. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions —

From patches, justly placed, they borrow’d graces,

And with vermilion lacquer’d o’er their faces.

Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée — a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue — which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Mrs. Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel.

For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair.

“Excuse me,” he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. “This tongue looks remarkably nice,” he added, slicing off an immense wedge, “excuse me — ho! ho!”

“You make yourself at home, I perceive,” observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust.

“I generally do,” replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack. “Your health, Kneebone.”

“Allow me to offer you a glass of usquebaugh, my dear,” said Kneebone, turning from him, and regarding Edgeworth Bess with a stare so impertinent, that even that not over-delicate young lady summoned up a blush.

“With pleasure, Sir,” replied Edgeworth Bess. “Dear me!” she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, “what a beautiful ring that is.”

“Do you think so?” replied Kneebone, taking it off, and placing it on her finger, which he took the opportunity of kissing at the same time; “wear it for my sake.”

“Oh, dear!” simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate.

“You don’t eat,” continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand.

“The Captain has seldom much appetite,” replied Blueskin, who, having disposed of the fowl, was commencing a vigorous attack upon the sirloin. “I eat for both.”

“So it seems,” observed the woollen-draper, “and for every one else, too.”

“I say, Kneebone,” rejoined Blueskin, as he washed down an immense mouthful with another bumper, “do you recollect how nearly Mr. Wild and I were nabbing you in this very room, some nine years ago?”

“I do,” replied Kneebone; “and now,” he added, aside, “the case is altered. I’m nearly nabbing you.”

“A good deal has occurred since then, eh, Captain!” said Blueskin, nudging Jack.

“Much that I would willingly forget. Nothing that I desire to remember,” replied Sheppard, sternly. “On that night — in this room — in your presence, Blueskin — in yours Mr. Kneebone, Mrs. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber.”

“She has paid dearly for it,” muttered Blueskin.

“She has,” rejoined Sheppard. “But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. On that night — that fatal night — Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became — what I am.”

“On that night, you first met me, love,” said Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to take his hand, which he coldly withdrew.

“And me,” added Mrs. Maggot tenderly.

“Would I had never seen either of you!” cried Jack, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step.

“Well, I’m sure Winifred could never have loved you as well as I do,” said Mrs. Maggot.

“You!” cried Jack, scornfully. “Do you compare your love — a love which all may purchase — with hers? No one has ever loved me.”

“Except me, dear,” insinuated Edgeworth Bess. “I’ve been always true to you.”

“Peace!” retorted Jack, with increased bitterness. “I’m your dupe no longer.”

“What the devil’s in the wind now, Captain?” cried Blueskin, in astonishment.

“I’ll tell you,” replied Jack, with forced calmness. “Within the last few minutes, all my guilty life has passed before me. Nine years ago, I was honest — was happy. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house — had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed — twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended.”

“Come, come, don’t take on thus, Captain,” cried Blueskin, rising and walking towards him. “If any one’s to blame, it’s me. I’m ready to bear it all.”

“Can you make me honest?” cried Jack. “Can you make me other than a condemned felon? Can you make me not Jack Sheppard?”

“No,” replied Blueskin; “and I wouldn’t if I could.”

“Curse you!” cried Jack, furiously — “curse you! — curse you!”

“Swear away, Captain,” rejoined Blueskin, coolly. “It’ll ease your mind.”

“Do you mock me?” cried Jack, levelling a pistol at him.

“Not I,” replied Blueskin. “Take my life, if you’re so disposed. You’re welcome to it. And let’s see if either of these women, who prate of their love for you, will do as much.”

“This is folly,” cried Jack, controlling himself by a powerful effort.

“The worst of folly,” replied Blueskin, returning to the table, and taking up a glass; “and, to put an end to it, I shall drink the health of Jack Sheppard, the housebreaker, and success to him in all his enterprises. And now, let’s see who’ll refuse the pledge.”

“I will,” replied Sheppard, dashing the glass from his hand. “Sit down, fool!”

“Jack,” said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, “are these regrets for your past life sincere?”

“Suppose them so,” rejoined Jack, “what then?”

“Nothing — nothing,” stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. “I’m glad to hear it, that’s all,” he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. “It won’t do to betray the officer,” he muttered.

“O lud! what an exquisite box!” cried Edgeworth Bess. “Is it gold?”

“Pure gold,” replied Kneebone. “It was given me by poor dear Mrs. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.”

“Pray, let me have a pinch!” said Edgeworth Bess, with a captivating glance. “I am so excessively fond of snuff.”

The woollen-draper replied by gallantly handing her the box, which was instantly snatched from her by Blueskin, who, after helping himself to as much of its contents as he could conveniently squeeze between his thumb and finger, put it very coolly in his pocket.

The action did not pass unnoticed by Sheppard.

“Restore it,” he cried, in an authoritative voice.

“O’ons! Captain,” cried Blueskin, as he grumblingly obeyed the command; “if you’ve left off business yourself, you needn’t interfere with other people.”

“I should like a little of that plum-tart,” said Mrs. Maggot; “but I don’t see a spoon.”

“I’ll ring for one,” replied Kneebone, rising accordingly; “but I fear my servants are gone to bed.”

Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced chaunting a snatch of a ballad:—

Once on a time, as I’ve heard tell.

In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell;

A carpenter he was by trade,

And money, I believe, he made.

With his foodle doo!

This carpenter he had a wife,

The plague and torment of his life,

Who, though she did her husband scold,

Loved well a woollen-draper bold.

With her foodle doo!

“I’ve a toast to propose,” cried Sheppard, filling a bumper. “You won’t refuse it, Mr. Kneebone?”

“He’d better not,” muttered Blueskin.

“What is it?” demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass.

“The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood,” replied Jack.

Kneebone’s cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.

Now Owen Wood had one fair child,

Unlike her mother, meek and mild;

Her love the draper strove to gain,

But she repaid him with disdain.

With his foodle doo!

“Peace!” cried Jack.

But Blueskin was not to be silenced. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader.

In vain he fondly urged his suit,

And, all in vain, the question put;

She answered — “Mr. William Kneebone,

Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.”

With your foodle doo!

“Thames Darrell has my heart alone,

A noble youth, e’en you must own; And, if from him my love could stir, Jack Sheppard I should much prefer!” With his foodle doo!

“Do you refuse my toast?” cried Jack, impatiently.

“I do,” replied Kneebone.

“Drink this, then,” roared Blueskin. And pouring the contents of a small powder-flask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture.

At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel.

“What did you ring for, Sir?” she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment.

“Your master wants a few table-spoons, child,” said Mrs. Maggot.

“Leave the room,” interposed Kneebone, angrily.

“No, I shan’t,” replied Rachel, saucily. “I came to see Jack Sheppard, and I won’t go till you point him out to me. You told me he was going back to Newgate after supper, so I mayn’t have another opportunity.”

“Oh! he told you that, did he?” said Blueskin, marching up to her, and chucking her under the chin. “I’ll show you Captain Sheppard, my dear. There he stands. I’m his lieutenant — Lieutenant Blueskin. We’re two good-looking fellows, ain’t we?”

“Very good-looking,” replied Rachel. “But, where’s the strange gentleman I saw under the table?”

“Under the table!” echoed Blueskin, winking at Jack. “When did you see him, my love?”

“A short time ago,” replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously.

“The plot’s out!” cried Jack. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. The crash was tremendous. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. And, if Rachel had not carried a candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack’s head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer’s arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. In the struggle the pistol went off, but without damage to either party. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. He was speedily disarmed; and the rope and gag being found upon him, were exultingly turned against him by his conqueror, who, after pinioning his arms tightly behind his back, forced open his mouth with the iron, and effectually prevented the utterance of any further outcries. While the strife was raging, Edgeworth Bess walked up to Rachel, and advised her, if she valued her life, not to scream or stir from the spot; a caution which the housekeeper, whose curiosity far outweighed her fears, received in very good part.

In the interim, Jack advanced to the woollen-draper, and regarding him sternly, thus addressed him:

“You have violated the laws of hospitality, Mr. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. You have betrayed me.”

“What faith is to be kept with a felon?” replied the woollen-draper, disdainfully.

“He who breaks faith with his benefactor may well justify himself thus,” answered Jack. “I have not trusted you. Others who have done, have found you false.”

“I don’t understand you,” replied Kneebone, in some confusion.

“You soon shall,” rejoined Sheppard. “Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?”

“The packets!” exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm.

“It is useless to deny it,” replied Jack. “You were watched to-night by Blueskin. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer. Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to deliver — one to another priest, Sir Rowland’s chaplain, at Manchester, the other to Mr. Wood. Produce them!”

“Never!” replied Kneebone.

“Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!” replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. “I give you one minute for reflection. After that time nothing shall save you.”

There was a brief, breathless pause. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety.

“It is past,” said Jack, placing his finger on the trigger.

“Hold!” cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; “they are nothing to me.”

“But they are everything to me,” cried Jack, stooping to pick them up. “These packets will establish Thames Darrell’s birth, win him his inheritance, and procure him the hand of Winifred Wood.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” rejoined Kneebone, snatching up the staff, and aiming a blow at his head, which was fortunately warded off by Mrs. Maggot, who promptly interposed her cudgel.

“Defend yourself!” cried Jack, drawing his sword.

“Leave his punishment to me, Jack,” said Mrs. Maggot. “I’ve the Bridewell account to settle.”

“Be it so,” replied Jack, putting up his blade. “I’ve a good deal to do. Show him no quarter, Poll. He deserves none.”

“And shall find none,” replied the Amazon. “Now, Mr. Kneebone,” she added, drawing up her magnificent figure to its full height, and making the heavy cudgel whistle through the air, “look to yourself.”

“Stand off, Poll,” rejoined the woollen-draper; “I don’t want to hurt you. It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman.”

“I’ll forgive you all the harm you do me,” rejoined the Amazon. “What! you still hesitate! Will that rouse you, coward?” And she gave him a smart rap on the head.

“Coward!” cried Kneebone. “Neither man nor woman shall apply that term to me. If you forget your sex, jade, I must forget mine.”

With this, he attacked her vigorously in his turn.

It was a curious sight to see how this extraordinary woman, who, it has been said, was not less remarkable for the extreme delicacy of her features, and the faultless symmetry of her figure, than for her wonderful strength and agility, conducted herself in the present encounter; with what dexterity she parried every blow aimed against her by her adversary, whose head and face, already marked by various ruddy streams, showed how successfully her own hits had been made; — how she drew him hither and thither, now leading him on, now driving him suddenly back; harassing and exhausting him in every possible way, and making it apparent that she could at any moment put an end to the fight, and only delayed the finishing stroke to make his punishment the more severe.

Jack, meanwhile, with Blueskin’s assistance, had set the table once more upon its legs, and placing writing materials, which he took from a shelf, upon it, made Shotbolt, who was still gagged, but whose arms were for the moment unbound, sit down before them.

“Write as I dictate,” he cried, placing a pen in the jailer’s hand and a pistol to his ear.

Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound.

“Write as follows,” continued Jack. “‘I have succeeded in capturing Jack Sheppard. The reward is mine. Get all ready for his reception. In a few minutes after the delivery of this note he will be in Newgate.’ Sign it,” he added, as, after some further threats, the letter was indited according to his dictation, “and direct it to Mr. Austin. That’s well. And, now, to find a messenger.”

“Mr. Kneebone’s man is in the shop,” said Rachel; “he’ll take it.”

“Can I trust him?” mused Jack. “Yes; he’ll suspect nothing. Give him this letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of time. Blueskin will go with you — for fear of a mistake.”

“You might trust me,” said Rachel, in an offended tone; “but never mind.”

And she left the room with Blueskin, who very politely offered her his arm.

Meanwhile, the combat between Kneebone and Mrs. Maggot had been brought to a termination. When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it.

“That’s for Mrs. Wood,” she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp.

“I’m at your mercy, Poll,” rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.

“That’s for Winifred,” vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder.

“Damnation!” cried Kneebone.

“That’s for myself,” rejoined Mrs. Maggot, dealing him a blow, which stretched him senseless on the floor.

“Bravo, Poll!” cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. “You’ve given him a broken head, I perceive.”

“He’ll scarcely need a plaister,” replied Mrs. Maggot, laughing. “Here, Bess, give me the cord, and I’ll tie him to this chest of drawers. I don’t think he’ll come to himself too soon. But it’s best to be on the safe side.”

“Decidedly so,” replied Edgeworth Bess; “and I’ll take this opportunity, while Jack’s back is turned — for he’s grown so strangely particular — of easing him of his snuff-box. Perhaps,” she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the before-named article, “he has a pocket-book.”

“Hush!” replied Mrs. Maggot; “Jack will hear you. We’ll come back for that by and by, and the dressing-gown.”

At this moment, Rachel and Blueskin returned. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them.

“Have you sent off the note?” inquired Jack.

“We have, Captain,” replied Blueskin. “I say we, because Miss Rachel and I have struck up a match. Shall I bring off anything?” he added, looking eagerly round.

“No,” replied Jack, peremptorily.

Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt’s face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. He, next, seized the unlucky jailer, and forced him along, while Blueskin expedited his movements by administering a few kicks behind.

Jack Sheppard striking Shotbolt the Gaoler

When they got to the door, Jack opened it, and, mimicking the voice of the jailer, shouted, “Now, my lads, all’s ready?”

“Here we are,” cried the chairmen, hurrying out of the court with their swinging vehicle, “where is he?”

“Here,” replied Sheppard, dragging out Shotbolt by the collar, while Blueskin pushed him behind, and Mrs. Maggot held up a lantern, which she found in the shop. “In with him!”

“Ay — ay, yer hon’r,” cried the foremost chairman, lending a helping hand. “Get in wid ye, ye villin!”

And, despite his resistance, Shotbolt was thrust into the chair, which was instantly fastened upon him.

“There, he’s as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould,” laughed the man.

“Off with you to Newgate!” cried Jack, “and don’t let him out till you get inside the Lodge. There’s a letter for the head turnkey, Mr. Irreton. D’ye hear.”

“Yes, yer hon’r,” replied the chairman, taking the note.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Jack, impatiently.

“The gen’l’man as hired us,” replied the chairman.

“Oh! he’ll be after you directly. He’s settling an account in the house. Lose no time. The letter will explain all.”

The chair was then rapidly put in motion, and speedily disappeared.

“What’s to be done next?” cried Blueskin, returning to Rachel, who was standing with Edgeworth Bess near the door.

“I shall go back and finish my supper,” said Mrs. Maggot.

“And so shall I,” replied Edgeworth Bess.

“Stop a minute,” cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. “Here we part — perhaps for ever. I’ve already told you I’m about to take a long journey, and it’s more than probable I shall never return.”

“Don’t say so,” cried Mrs. Maggot. “I should be perfectly miserable if I thought you in earnest.”

“The very idea is dreadful,” whimpered Edgeworth Bess.

“Farewell!” cried Jack, embracing them. “Take this key to Baptist Kettleby. On seeing it, he’ll deliver you a box, which it will unlock, and in which you’ll find a matter of fifty guineas and a few trinkets. Divide the money between you, and wear the ornaments for my sake. But, if you’ve a spark of love for me, don’t meddle with anything in that house.”

“Not for worlds!” exclaimed both ladies together.

“Farewell!” cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street.

“What shall we do, Poll?” hesitated Edgeworth Bess.

“Go in, to be sure, simpleton,” replied Mrs. Maggot, “and bring off all we can. I know where everything valuable is kept. Since Jack has left us, what does it matter whether he’s pleased or not?”

At this moment, a whistle was heard.

“Coming!” cried Blueskin, who was still lingering with Rachel. “The Captain’s in such a desperate hurry, that there’s no time for love-making. Adieu! my charmer. You’ll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances. Adieu!”

And, snatching a hasty kiss, he darted after Jack.

The chair, meanwhile, with its unhappy load, was transported at a brisk pace to Newgate. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened — Shotbolt’s note having been received just before. All the turnkeys were assembled. Ireton and Langley had returned from a second unsuccessful search; Marvel had come thither to bid good-night to Mrs. Spurling; Austin had never quitted his post. The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, who’d have thought of Shotbolt beating us all in this way!” said Ireton. “I’m sorry for old Newgate that another jail should have it. It’s infernally provoking.”

“Infernally provoking!” echoed Langley.

“Nobody has so much cause for complaint as me,” growled Austin. “I’ve lost my wager.”

“Twenty pounds,” rejoined Mrs. Spurling. “I witnessed the bet.”

“Here he is!” cried Ireton, as the knocking was heard without. “Get ready the irons, Caliban.”

“Wait a bit, massa,” replied the grinning negro — “lilly bit — see all right fust.”

By this time, the chair had been brought into the Lodge.

“You’ve got him?” demanded Ireton.

“Safe inside,” replied the chairman, wiping the heat from his brow; “we’ve run all the way.”

“Where’s Mr. Shotbolt?” asked Austin.

“The gen’l’man’ll be here directly. He was detained. T’ other gen’l’man said the letter ‘ud explain all.”

“Detained!” echoed Marvel. “That’s odd. But, let’s see the prisoner.”

The chair was then opened.

“Shotbolt! by —” cried Austin, as the captive was dragged forth. “I’ve won, after all.”

Exclamations of wonder burst from all. Mrs. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. Caliban absolutely crowed with delight.

“Hear the letter,” said Ireton, breaking the seal. “’This is the way in which I will serve all who attempt to apprehend me.’ It is signed JACK SHEPPARD.”

“And, so Jack Sheppard has sent back Shotbolt in this pickle,” said Langley.

“So it appears,” replied Marvel. “Untie his arms, and take off that handkerchief. The poor fellow’s half smothered.”

“I guess what share you’ve had in this,” whispered Austin to Mrs. Spurling.

“Never mind,” replied the tapstress. “You’ve won your wager.”

Half an hour after this occurrence, when it had been sufficiently laughed at and discussed; when the wager had been settled, and the chairman dismissed with the remaining three guineas, which Shotbolt was compelled to pay; Ireton arose, and signified his intention of stepping across the street to inform Mr. Wild of the circumstance.

“As it’s getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed,” he observed; “I’ll take the pass-key, and let myself in. Mr. Wild is sure to be up. He never retires to rest till daybreak — if at all. Come with me, Langley, and bring the lantern.”